Without Your Smile
by 0'EmeraldEyes'0
Summary: Just a oneshot, my first fic ever, as kind of an experiment, so please tell me how I did. This is the story of the Racetrack Higgins that no one ever sees ...


How would one describe a New York summer for the newsboys of Manhattan? Easy. It was a living-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type of existence. Meals were poor (if they came at all), but entertainment was abundant (the streets pulsed with life, both day and night). Love was a word not spoken, yet your brothers were never far. Incomes were low and rents were high, but sleep was never hard to catch. It came in deep, heavy breaths when the red sun began setting behind the squat brown buildings, their shadows all merging into one another.

Racetrack Higgins used to sit alone on these nights, puffing on a cheap cigar under pinprick stars, while grumbling snores would drift through the windows of those more fortunate than himself. There was once a time when Race had wished he himself could live among the upper class: in a big white house with a winding staircase, or perhaps leather couches. Silver sinks in immaculate bathrooms; a bedroom of his very own; a balcony on which to do his thinking; feather pillows … Feather pillows were always what Race wished for most all those mornings he woke up on a hard mattress, sheets sticking to his already-sweaty flesh.

Those days were long ago however. Race came to the realization everyday as he walked past the well-to-do on his paper rounds that he would never, ever, be one of them. It didn't bother him anymore though. After all, Racetrack's basic philosophy was "When in doubt, smile." And he did. Anthony Racetrack Higgins was short, Italian, and could make anyone laugh. Anyone. Even the Brooklyn newsies, who weren't fond of smiling because smiling revealed emotion. Brooklynites didn't like emotion. They were above it.  
Day in and day out Race was the comic relief, and while he loved lifting the spirits of his fellow newsies, there was not anyone who realized that Race wanted to be more than a jester to one newsie in particular. But of course, no one knew this – no one ever knew how Race felt. Race's thoughts were his own, and he liked it that way – the rest of the world would just have to be content with their sarcastic, good-humored gambler.

Some nights though, nights like tonight, Race could dream. He'd see those sea foam eyes and that roguish grin, feel those pale hands against his skin, and sometimes even taste salty lips pressed against his …

Racetrack cursed under his breath then. The echo was quickly devoured by the blackness of the night. He laid his head back against the hot brick wall, letting out a regretful type of sigh. You see, being short and Italian were two of Racetrack's good qualities. He also happened to be in love with the king of Brooklyn. Race didn't know why, or since when, but he woke up one day realizing that Spot Conlon was what he wanted.

The Brooklynite had captured his attention like no one else ever could. Racetrack admired Spot's bravery, he respected the authority Spot commanded … but mostly, he just liked the way Spot smiled. Yet Spot would never know. Race simply could not confide in anyone, he'd never been able to; it was like a phobia, never being able to trust anyone as he did. Sometimes he hated himself for it.

Looking out over the dingy streets, Race let a quiet breath of air pass through parted lips in a solemn exhale. He'd come to the conclusion he always did after the same cruel cycle of thoughts. Spot was not his, never would be his. He was a Brooklyn boy, not Race's boy. Why should Race even love, if he was never to be loved back?

And with that, Anthony Racetrack Higgins snuffed out his cigar as he did every night, let the one teardrop he allowed himself fall to the dirt, and stood up wearily. On his way home, he took notice of the dirty ends of the cigars that had been left by him last night, and the night before, and the night before … all those nights adding to his never ending heartache. Yet Racetrack smiled; for he knew that in the morning, they would all expect him to smile. And after all, if Race didn't smile, he stood no chance of getting Spot to smile. And Race didn't know what he'd do without Spot's smile …


End file.
